Angel wing designs on a parchment flash sheet

We pitched on the green behind the gasworks again, and the rain came through the canvas twice since Tuesday, so the sheet of wings I drew for Mr Okonedo has gone soft at the corners like bread. He wants six pairs on one page, numbered down the side, because he says customers pick by number when they are too shy to say what they want. I've learned that much from him. The rest I'm still learning, mostly how to keep my pen clear of the ink pot when the dog in the next booth starts barking.

I drew the fourth pair under the ferris wheel on Thursday, the small ones that sit across the shoulder like a sparrow's wings. Nobody wants small wings, he says, but they always go to lads who've just come back from somewhere. I think he's wrong about that. If it were me I'd want the big ones, the kind that take up a whole back and make a person stand differently in a doorway.

On Sunday a man came in with a stiff collar and a creased photograph of a boy in a school cap, and he asked for the third pair, the single long feathers curled at the tips. Mr Okonedo charged him nothing and said the wings would keep his place. I didn't ask what he meant. I only know the ink went on dark and steady, and I'm writing to you with my fingers still smelling of it.

The sheet is pinned above the stove now, the date stamped between the pairs like a signature. Tell Dad the wheel is still turning and I'm keeping my hands dry.

Your loving daughter, Ida